


gelid

by thishazeleyeddemon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cold, Huddling For Warmth, Listen!!! I know!!! it's 2020 I only write what I want now, Lucifer's Cage (Supernatural), M/M, Pre-Slash, Storytelling, You would be right, all michael and adam do is tell story bicker eat french fry and lie, if you read all my fics you may suspect I don't like cold weather that much, mention of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:54:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27952676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thishazeleyeddemon/pseuds/thishazeleyeddemon
Summary: gelid - adj. Icy, extremely cold.A turning point.
Relationships: Michael & Adam Milligan, Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	gelid

**Author's Note:**

> i hate cold weather and winter to insane degrees if I was magic it would be heat/fire stuff

Adam had not been convinced that their new accord would change anything, but shortly afterwards he was proven wrong.

Commonly, Adam stayed within his own memories, allowing Michael the view of the outside void of the Cage (not that Michael was outside very often, these days. Even before they were on anything approaching good terms, he still was with him frequently. Adam supposed fighting Lucifer had to grow dull). There was a memory of a forest he’d visited on a trip with his mother (a stunningly rare occasion, Adam was fairly sure it was the only time he’d left Windom before college) when he was twelve that he visited frequently; he’d read that greenery was supposed to help stave off insanity in people who had to spend a lot of time in enclosed spaces for one reason or another.

He was also fairly sure it wouldn’t have mattered if Michael hadn’t been there to heal his memories, to patch his broken neurons, but at least here he had the memory of sunlight, even if it had nothing on the real thing.

It was within this memory that he rested when Michael came to find him this time. He was sitting on the memory of the roof of a cabin he’d stayed in, staring up at the false sky. He remembered the sun as bright, but he could stare at this without blinking - was it because it was a memory, or was it not bright enough? Was that the right shade of blue for the sky? He tried not to dwell on these things too much - there wasn’t really a way for him to know, in any case. 

He turned when he felt Michael next to him. Even when Michael was silent, Adam could feel the burning of his presence. “Hey, halo,” he said. He hesitated, before adding, “Wanna sit with me?”

Michael tilted his head in that odd way he had. In the first few years, that question, the nickname (which Adam couldn’t remember when he’d started to use) would have been met with derision. Now, all it provoked was a shrug and a quiet, “I suppose.” Michael rarely talked much, he had learned. He had assumed, at first, that it was simply because Michael didn’t see fit to speak to a human, but it was seeming that the Viceroy of Heaven was just a quiet person. 

Still, Adam heard something off in his voice as Michael sat down next to him, a...stiffness that made him turn his head to look at the archangel. Michael gazed back coolly, but there was something in his face, the set of his shoulders, that seemed wrong. Adam bit his lip. Would it be okay, to ask? Michael was proud, probably even more so than Lucifer. He didn’t think that Michael would hurt him, even when they’d hated each other he’d still only sneered and snarled and left (although that had been enough, being _alone-),_ but he still didn’t know if it was okay. Everything felt so new and uncertain now, their agreement (to really talk, to try and understand, to try and get along so their imprisonment wasn't any harder than it had to be) still so fresh.

Adam swallowed, and took the easy route instead. “Do you want to hear a story?”

At some point they’d started saying that first. Adam wasn’t sure why, they hadn’t bothered back at the start, when they’d been telling each other things (or rather, Adam had told Michael things) in between long silences and biting words simply to pass the time. Neither of them were going to say no, but it still seemed important to say.

Sure enough, Michael leaned back, whatever shadow had been on his face before disappearing under a look of interest. “Sure, kid.”

That was new too, and it made Adam grin, some of his tension dissipating. “Alright, old man. When I was twelve...”

This was a comforting routine. Adam felt himself relax as he went through a story about the trip he’d taken here, the cake his mother had let him order at the place where they’d stayed, the first time he’d been far enough away from a city to see the real night sky and the way the vast shining expanse of it all had stolen his breath away (’it’s easy to not see how big everything is in a little town...I think that was the first time I even understood that a tiny bit.”), the walk they’d taken and the way his head had been filled with the sound of rushing water and the green smell of the forest. 

“How can a smell be green?” Michael asked. The stiffness in his demeanor hadn’t quite fled, but he was giving every indication of enjoying the story. Perhaps someone who hadn’t known him for so long wouldn’t be able to tell, but Adam could see his interest.

“It’s...” Adam fumbled for an explanation. Before he might have just brushed Michael off with a “Don’t worry about it”, but in truth it was sort of fun to try and explain. “Obviously it isn’t, not really, but I guess...it’s because it wasn’t any specific thing, right? I’m sure you could find all the different plants or whatever -” he nudged Michael lightly “-But it was just because it was all the different smells of the trees and grass and bushes, all together, all those different growing things. Sure, a lot of plants aren’t green, but enough are that it’s kind of how we think about them. So it’s like...saying that it was green...that just means it’s the smell of new things, of stuff growing altogether. Of life - does that make sense?” 

“It does,” Michael allowed. “Or it doesn’t, not really, but I think I understand how it would for you.” His voice was contemplative. “I think...do you want to hear a story?”

“Oh - sure.” It was stupid to feel like something unexpected had happened. Michael had shared stories before, frequently, but it was Adam who had started this off and still often Adam who was the storyteller. Presumably eventually they would run out of stories from Adam, Adam who only had nineteen years of them as opposed to Michael’s untold eons - but they hadn’t yet. Adam settled back, crossing his legs. “Go ahead, halo.”

Michael nodded, shifting so he was sitting cross-legged just like Adam. He was a bit of a copycat in truth, though Adam wasn’t sure if he knew how much. 

Michael had been a terrible storyteller at the start, ironically because he took a more logical approach - to say just what happened. He still did that, but now he tended to add more details - how he had felt, what he had wanted to say but didn’t, what he thought about what had happened. When he let himself, he could even be quite funny, in a very dry sort of way. Adam had grown to enjoy their storytelling more and more as the years (centuries) went on, as it felt more and more like he was talking to Michael and less like he was reading a list of facts online.

(It fit, though, in a terrible sort of way with the stories Michael told of Heaven - which seemed rife with work reports, and scarce of anyone who would ask Michael his opinion on anything.)

This story was about a star. There was a limit to how much Michael could describe the process of its creation (”I’m not sure a human can fully understand,” and at least his voice was apologetic now and not arrogant), but he did his best, describing the feeling of shaping the energy, the power that radiated out of it, the way the light cut through the darkness like a knife (Michael, Adam had noticed, seemed to like comparing things to weapons). He grew more animated as he spoke, gesturing with his hands like he wanted to paint in the air. 

“Do you want to show me?” Adam asked, before Michael could get into his next sentence.

Michael blinked. “Hm?”

“You know -” Adam waved his hands. “Archangel magic up a picture, or something, I want to see this star too.”

He was expecting Michael to either comply or brush it off, that or tease him for saying archangel magic, but instead the archangel drew inward, his shoulders stiffening again. “Maybe later,” he said, his voice too tight, too controlled.

Adam frowned. “Okay, sorry but - are you okay?”

He leaned forward. Michael looked away, down at the expanse of fake forest with fake trees that were just green blobs until you looked directly at them. He wore Adam’s face so differently, it was striking. Sure, technically they looked the same - but the graceful way he moved, how he smiled, the way he tilted his head, the way he gestured as he spoke came together to make a picture of a completely different person. Sometimes it was hard to remember that Michael’s face was technically also his. “I’m...I’m fine,” Michael said, his voice tight with concealed strain. 

Adam bit his lip. He didn’t want to press, didn’t want to do anything that could strain their new accord, but...”Halo,” he said, pitching his voice as gentle as he could. “Tell me? Maybe I can help.”

Years and years ago, that would have provoked anger; now, Michael gave him a quiet, pained smile. “I don’t...you don’t have to,” he said carefully. “I can handle it fine, it’s just right now, it’s a little...”

“Halo, you’re the first thing ever made,” Adam said. “You’re the toughest angel there is, I know you can handle it.” He leaned forward, close enough that he could touch Michael. He didn’t - aside from getting pushed around a bit at the start, Michael had never touched him and he had never returned the favor. Not even after their agreement. “Do you want to handle it?”

He wouldn’t push it. Not if Michael didn’t want him to. 

Michael swallowed, looking hesitant. It was a strange look on him, on the eternal soldier. Eventually he shook his head, short and jerkily. “I’m...you know that Lucifer is of ice,” he began.

Adam flinched at the mention of the Adversary. “Sure do,” he muttered. Of the few times he’d been Out, one of them had been when Lucifer had shoved a gigantic spike of ice right through their body. Even without that, the frosty aura of his presence was like standing in Antarctica in midwinter. Although it was nothing compared to the Cage itself -- he looked at Michael, burning Michael, fiery Michael, and thought he felt understanding dawn. “Is it an...elemental thing? The Cage is hurting you because it’s built for Lucifer, not you? Because it’s too cold for you?”

Michael looked genuinely impressed, an expression Adam suspected few had ever seen. “Yes, that’s it. It’s -” He shifted, moving his hands in a way that Adam knew he had learned from him as he tried to figure out what to say. “Energy, life, the fire of creation...these aren’t here,” he said eventually. “It’s...it’s too cold.” He shivered, unconsciously. “It’s too cold.”

Adam nodded. “Sometimes I can still feel the cold around the edges. It’s...” But what words were there, for a space that had never seen any sun? He’s sure without Michael the cold would have driven him mad. “How can I help you?”

“You don’t have to,” Michael said again. “You’re my vessel, it’s my job to protect you. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I know I don’t need to,” Adam snorted, and quietly filed the “it’s my job to protect you” away under ‘interesting’ in his mind. That had not been part of the vessel discussion all those years ago. That was a new sentiment from Michael. Adam wasn’t sure what it meant, yet.

He looked Michael in those strange, pale eyes and said, “I want to.”

Michael sucked in a breath, a quick, sharp intake of false air. “I...”

Adam smiled, wryly. “I say yes.”

Michael was very still, for a moment. He could be much stiller than Adam was, without all those little residual instincts that said move this way, shift, fidget. Than he smiled, and if it was a little sad, a little sardonic, Adam wouldn’t mention it. “Alright, then.”

“What do I have to do?”

Michael squirmed. That was the only word for it. It was sort of funny, to see Viceroy Michael looking so uncomfortable. “Can I...you know souls are powerful,” he started, “They have a lot of energy. May I...”

Adam looked up at the false, too-blue sky. When he thought he had mastered himself enough to not do anything stupid, like burst out laughing, he looked back down and held out his arms. “C’mere.”

Michael blinked, going still again. “You don’t know what I was going to say,” he said, a bit petulantly.

“Was it not going to be, “Let’s cuddle for warmth like we’re in a Christmas-themed romance novel?”

Michael didn’t laugh - Adam hadn’t figured out how to get him to, not yet - but he looked like he wanted to, his smile torn between embarrassed and amused. “Not quite like that, no.” The smile slipped from his face. “Are you sure this is okay?”

Adam tilted his head. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Michael’s mouth twisted. “I don’t...you’re so small,” he said, a bit helplessly. His hands fluttered nervously by his side. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Adam couldn’t quite hold back a smile at that. His chest felt full of real warmth. “I appreciate that,” he told him. “But I’m not quite as small as that. It would probably be good, actually, humans are supposed to get physical contact from people.”

Michael looked alarmed. “Really? How often?”

Adam tried not to wince. “You’re supposed to get a hug at least eight times a day, ideally twelve.”

There was a pause while they considered the amount of time they had both been down, down in the dark, occupying the same body but refusing to let Grace and soul touch.

“Is it too late,” Michael said eventually. “To apologize again?”

He didn’t say for what. There were a lot of options, after all. 

“Why don’t you give me a hug instead?” Adam offered. He was still sitting cross-legged; he shifted around so he could more easily lean into Michael and held out his arms. “Come here.” Michael shifted forward slowly. Had he ever tried to touch someone before, outside of combat? One of his brothers maybe, at the start of things. So...at minimum, a few billion...oh dear.

He paused when he was almost within Adam’s grasp and looked at him. Adam put on his most encouraging face and tried to project “this is totally okay and everything is fine” at him. Michael’s barriers between them were up, so he didn’t mind when the archangel made no sign of having heard and just shifted closer, reaching out to pull Adam to him as well.

As soon as their hands made contact with each other, they both yelped and pulled back, staring at each other with wide eyes.

Adam was the first one to break and laugh. “So, maybe a little more intense than we expected,” he said, grinning.

Adam laughing seemed to relax Michael. “Perhaps we should have guessed,” he said. “It’s been a little while, after all.”

“Oh yeah, just a little while,” Adam agreed. “Try again or stop?”

“Try again.”

It wasn’t that it hurt, of course. It didn’t, although Adam’s underused nerves almost thought it did. It was like sticking a hand in an oven, like his veins were full of lightning and electricity. What of this was from touching an angel’s Grace construct and what was from simply being very, very touch-starved, he didn’t know, although he was sure the few times they’d touched in the first few years it hadn’t been nearly this intense. So maybe it was all him.

Michael seemed to be similarly overwhelmed by the first warmth he’d felt in many, many years. His hands fluttered over Adam’s shoulders, like he didn’t know where to put them, like Adam was almost too hot to touch. So Adam rolled his eyes and leaned his weight on him fully. He wasn’t so breakable as all that.

Michael caught him, easily, and the contact seemed to have worn down their barriers somewhat. Adam felt the angel’s true form shift and writhe on some adjacent plane, and for a moment, the jacket under his fingers felt like feathers. He could hear Michael’s surprise, his high-pitched nervousness, the way what passed for his nerves were singing in comfort at the warmth. It helped him relax, oddly. The knowledge that it wasn’t just him who was out of his depth was welcome. Michael blinked, and Adam knew that he heard that thought and didn’t mind.

They ended up with Adam half on-top of Michael, Adam's arms around Michael's body and Adam’s head tucked under Michael’s chin. Michael’s hands were still fluttering, trying to figure out where was okay to hold.

“You live in my body, halo, you’re technically touching all of me already,” Adam grumbled. It takes effort to focus enough to make that sentence, when he wants to just sink into the warmth and close his eyes. He felt like a man who’d been given water after years in the desert. He wasn’t sure he was ever going to let go.

“It’s your soul, though,” Michael argued, because of course he did. The nervous whine even faded when he did - Michael liked to argue.

“Hugs work better if you actually grab me.”

That worked. Michael huffed, but he eventually settled on one hand on Adam’s shoulder and the other on his back, like a brand through his shirt. “You’re so warm,” he marveled.

“Haven’t you touched the souls of other people you’ve possessed?” Adam pointed out. Michael's tone made his face feel warm. “I can’t be that unusual.” 

“No, it...” Michael huffed. “It seemed weird. I didn’t touch them.”

“Hm, fair enough,” Adam allowed. “You are still very much touching me - my body is me - but fair enough. Is this helping? Because I don’t mind getting up if you want, but I may not ever if you don’t mind.” 

Michael still didn’t laugh, but the noise he made this time had the shape of one. “Our beings can still touch without these extensions needing to,” he said. “Technically we don’t have to stop.”

“Fine. You wanna try for the world’s longest hug or something?” He looked up at Michael and grinned. Michael smiled back. He seemed calmer, now that the chill had receded. Adam could feel him shifting his wings, just like a man shaking his hands to try and get the circulation going.

“I don’t have blood,” Michael reminded him. “And sure. Because of the cold.”

“Because of the cold,” Adam echoed, and carefully did not wonder why, if their bodies didn’t need to touch for their beings to, if Michael didn’t actually need to hold him, why the Archangel Michael, Viceroy of Heaven, wanted to hold him at all.

_Fin._


End file.
